


break my skin, crack my skull (my holy land still grows)

by problematiquefave



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gap Filler, Gen, Post-Season/Series 03, Protective Siblings, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 03:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: Alicia and Nick find themselves in the hands of the Proctors. They have two options: escape or die.





	break my skin, crack my skull (my holy land still grows)

**Author's Note:**

> favvnsongs on tumblr asked: oooh, can i request "go through me" and the clark sibs for bad things bingo?
> 
> Comments are appreciated. You can find me on [Tumblr](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/) where I'm always ~~desperately~~ looking for prompts.

Nick wakes in a dimly lit room – a headache pounding at the sides of his skull, nausea rumbling in his belly. He rolls over, onto his elbows, and _oh_ that’s a bad move. That’s a very bad move. He shuts his eyes tight again, trying to stave off catastrophe. By some miracle of God, he manages not to throw up.

“Nick?”

Browns eyes snap open. He looks up, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and there she is. His sister. She’s leaning into the corner, holding her arm to her chest. Half her face is purple, her lip is swollen, and there’s a scab in the corner.

His nausea is forgotten about as he scrabbles to his knees, crawling over to her. He doesn’t think twice – reaching out for her, pulling her closer. “‘Licia,” he murmurs as she rests her head on his chest. His fingers card through her honey-colored hair as he tries to steady his breathing. As he tries to remember how they got here.

The memory is irritatingly vague. He remembers arid land and a blistering sun. There had been a car – one they had been travelling in, one that had failed on them in a puff of smoke. He remembers Alicia complaining about not having cell service as he bent over the engine, trying to determine what was wrong. He had been growing more frustrated with each passing second. He knew nothing about cars and ‘ _no shit ‘Licia, it’s the middle of the apocalypse.’_

_‘No need to snap at me,’_ she’d said with a frown, falling silent as Nick continued to stare fruitlessly at the confusing mess of metal. He’d only looked up when the roaring sound of another vehicle reached his ears. _Salvation_ , he’d thought.

And then… Nothing.

It went blank after that.

“‘Licia, what happened?”

She shudders in his arms and doesn’t bother to look up as she answers. “Proctors.”

It’s enough to make his heart stop. But the knowledge that _they need to escape, now_ is enough to restart it. His eyes darts around the room, sizing up the prison they’ve found themselves in, searching for a way out. There’s a single, high up window. He sees no latch from his angle and its suspiciously small. Even if they managed to break the glass, could they fit through it? Alicia might and that might be enough for him. Besides it, the only obvious way out is the door. That seems even less viable.

“Don’t, Nick,” she says. She pulls away from his chest, grimacing in pain at the movement, and stares him down. “They’ll kill us. I—” Her expression screws up into something unreadable. “They got mad at me for making too much noise. I think they broke my arm.”

He has to swallow back bile.

“They’ll kill us either way,” he points out. “That’s why we’re here.”

They’d been running from the remains of the Proctors ever since the dam. Mom, Strand, Alicia, and him. Luciana had joined them, face contorting in horror when they told her who was after them. She muttered something about devils and bad luck in Spanish but stayed at their side as they navigated from one outpost to the next, stumbling across the border.

They had known the Proctors spanned from Baja to Texas but they had thought— They had _foolishly_ thought they were safe once they crossed the border. Once they were back on US soil, charging full steam ahead into its unknown remains. They knew there would be dangers in the wastelands, knew there would be enemies and monsters, but they had put the Proctors out of their heads.

Clearly, they had been wrong to do so.

But what do they do now?

“Did they say anything else?” he asks Alicia. “Do you know who’s here?”

She looks at the floor. “They’re waiting – for John, I think, but if he doesn’t get here soon…” She shakes her head. He desperately wants her to finish that sentence but he knows what follows isn’t good. Between torture, death, or worse, the specifics probably don’t matter. He knows for sure they won’t be sharing chocolate milkshakes.

But, above all else, he knows this:

They have to escape.

 

 

Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours. The light shining through the window grows bright then dark; the room is nearly pitch black, Alicia’s soft snores the only sound to be heard, and then it’s not. Then the deadbolt clicks, the handle turns, and a flood of light spills into the room. Nick cringes, narrowing his eyes, barely registering the people in the doorway until they speak.

“Grab the girl,” one of them orders. Another, who looks more like a shadow than a man, steps towards them.

“Get the fuck away!” Nick shouts, jostling Alicia and shoving her behind him. “If you want her then you’ll have to go throu—”

_Smack_.

His cheek stings but he has only a second to register the pain before rough hands yank him away from his sister. He’s shoved onto his stomach, a boot planted firmly between his shoulder blades. He struggles, clawing at the floor, babbling threats and obscenities that are drowned out by Alicia’s pleas, by her shouts and screams as the Proctors drag her away. Her voice is distant by the time he’s released but he doesn’t have a chance to chase after her. The door slams shut and he’s plunged into darkness.

He’s alone and afraid. So fucking afraid. What are they doing to Alicia? Why did they want just her and not him? He swears to God that if they hurt her – if they so much as touch one hair on her head – he’s going to rip them to shreds. And even though it’s a lie, because he’s a weak ex-drug addict who’s killed once and _knows_ he won’t again ( _can’t_ again), it doesn’t feel that way.

He sits, stewing in the darkness, for what feels like ages. Grim thoughts are poor company to keep. The only thing they manage to do is distract him from the gnawing hunger in his belly; they certainly don’t let him rest – not that he could, not with Alicia beyond his reach.

_Eventually_ – and eventually means eternity, or so it feels – the door opens again. The lights are blinding but he squints through them. Alicia is with them and he _doesn’t care_. Doesn’t think. He jumps to his feet, rushes towards them, and earns a fist in his gut for his troubles. He crumples, collapsing against the cold floor. Alicia shouts, dropping to her knees beside him.

“You two better learn your place,” one of the Proctors spits. His words are followed by a heavy clang as something drops to the floor; they turn and leave without another sound.

Alicia turns on a flashlight as he sits up. She’s holding it in one hand, the other bound to her chest in a sling. He lets out a deep breath upon seeing it. “Did they…?”

“That’s all they did,” Alicia answers. “Then they grabbed some food and brought me back.”

He nods, crawling over to her and peering down at the other items the Proctors had left. Two cans, two spoons, and a can opener. Picking up one of the spoons, he turns it over in his hand, allowing the light to reflect off of it.

“Nick…”

He looks up at her. “If we stay, we’re dead. The least we can do is try.”

She sighs. “I know. Just… Let’s eat first.”

So, despite the energy buzzing beneath his skin, he opens both cans. The tomato soup settles funny in his stomach but he can’t allow it to slow him down. He all but guzzles down his can, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He holds up the empty can, sizing it up, and eventually deciding it’s worthless. The window is thin but this won’t break it. He’s going to have to do this the old fashioned way.

Alicia follows him with the flashlight. The window is too high to reach on his own but there’s an old bucket he can stand on. Is he more likely to fall on his rear and bust his tailbone? Sure. But he _has_ to try. He’s got a spoon held tightly in his fist and the determination of man staring death in the face. Shutting his eyes, he takes a deep breath for good measure, and then slams his hand against the glass.

It doesn’t break.

It _does_ crack.

His heartrate soars, a crooked grin spreading across his lips as he stares at the hair-thin cracks that look like a spider’s web. Eyes shut, he hits the window – again and again, until it shatters and glass falls everywhere. He jumps off the stool, squeezing his hand as it pulses with pain. He turns to Alicia.

“You first.”

“But—”

He shakes his head. “No arguments. You first.”

He’s not sure if anyone heard their attempts; if they did, he doesn’t know when they’ll arrive. He has to prioritize and Alicia’s safety means more than his. She gets up onto the bucket and he helps lift her higher so she can crawl through the window. “Run,” he says, meeting her eyes as he steps onto the bucket. He thinks he can hear the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door.

She does as he tells her. He hoists himself halfway through the window before something yanks him back. He falls, hitting the ground with a sickening crack. Pain shoots through him, glass embedded in his skin. Angry faces loom over him but his vision distorts and darkness consumes him.

 

 

If there’s one takeaway from this experience, it’s that captivity really screws with your sense of time.

He _thinks_ it’s been a few days since Alicia escaped – and he _thinks_ Alicia escaped because he’s sure one of his guards would’ve gloated if they grabbed her. He caught hell from them in the aftermath, beatings and bruisings and broken bones. His ribs hurt like nothing else in his life ever has and he struggles to breathe. The ropes twisting around his arms, legs, and torso don’t help.

Nick is unconscious for most of this though not for the bad parts – not for when they force water and broth down his throat, not when they make him piss into an empty bottle. One of the guards threatens to make him drink it. It doesn’t happen but he knows they want to. He knows they want to tear him limb from limb, like a pack of wolves who’ve starved all winter. They want to see his blood and bones, they want to watch him cry and struggle, and they want to hear his chest rattle with his dying breath. But they’re waiting.

They’re waiting for John.

And he comes, eventually.

He looks the same as he did on the bridge of the dam. Wispy, greying hair, a villain’s goatee, dark eyes that would be kindly on any other man. Nick jerks back in his seat when the man comes to a stop before him and _oh_ is that a mistake. He gasps at the pain, gritting his teeth to prevent more sound.

“I was told they had some trouble with you,” John starts. “I was also told they had your sister. Am I to presume her absence is the source of your pain?”

“Go to hell.”

John clicks his tongue. He motions to one of the guards and, before Nick can blink, there’s a chair and the older man is sitting in it. “I’m still a bit weak,” he explains. “Eddie says I might not fully recover ever. Unfortunate but… I’m alive. There’s not many left in this world that can say that.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don’t need to threaten you. You’re tied to a chair, you’ve got blood in your hair, and I doubt you could stand even if you were free. But,” he continues, “to answer what you’re actually thinking, no. I’m not going to kill you. Not until I have your sister, your mother, and Strand. I’d like to finish what we started down in Baja.”

“Fuck you.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re not my type, boy. You’re sister, maybe, but I don’t like leaving families. You get eye-for-eye situations otherwise.”

Nick snorts. “Can’t have that. Couldn’t just… _Leave us alone_.”

“I don’t like unfinished business either. Now—” John leans forward in his seat, his face dangerously close to Nick’s “—I’m going to leave you to rest, and I’ll have a doctor come to check on you later. But just know you should start making your peace. Some of my scouts have zeroed in on their location. It won’t be long until they’re here and this can all _finally_ end.”

He stands, turning away from Nick like he means nothing – like he’s just a part of the scenery. Nick swallows and shuts his eyes. He’d be angry if it didn’t hurt so much, if it would mean something – anything. But he’s helpless, no hope in sight.

_If you’re listening, God…_

 

The door bursts open with a bang.

“Nick!”

His head shoots up; Alicia is standing in the doorway, Strand behind her. She rushes to his side, producing her butterflying knife from her boot, using it to tear into his ropes. She hugs him when he’s free.

“I thought I lost you.”

And even though it hurts like hell, he returns the hug; his arms sliding around her as he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, breathing in her warmth. His heart pounds in his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud but _I thought I lost you too_ echoes in his head.

“Alicia, Nick,” Strands calls from the doorway. “We should get back. Your mom won’t wait for long.”

Alicia helps him to his feet; Strand slides an arm underneath his shoulder, propping him up and keeping him from face-planting as they slowly travel through the Proctors’ hideout. They reach a set of stairs but rather than go down – towards the ground, towards the exit – they go up. Each step sends pain shooting through his nerves but he grits his teeth and bears it, refusing to say a word as they reach their destination.

It’s an office. An old, ornate desk sits in the middle – behind it is John, sitting straight-backed with pursed lips. There’s a gun pressed to his temple. Madison has her finger on the trigger.

She looks Nick dead in the eye as she says, “I wanted you here to watch.” Not a beat passes before she pulls the trigger.

John’s head hits the desk with a thud.

Nick feels sick to his stomach.

“It’s over,” Alicia whispers, “we’re safe.”

They’re not. Not by a long shot. But Nick nods, lips sealed so he doesn’t spill the contents of his stomach. He knows they won’t ever be safe unless they have a community to hide in, walls to protect them. But they’re _safer_. No more monsters of the old world chasing them – just the ones of the new world.


End file.
